Dragonfly Short Quotes

She was a fly, but the others were dragonflies, butterflies, beautiful insects, dancing, fluttering, skimming, while she alone dragged herself up out of the saucer.

I'm honest enough to say that I dinna care what the right and wrong of it may be, so long as you're here wi' me, Claire," he said softly. "If it was a sin for you to choose me...then I would go to the devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it." He lifted my foot and gently kissed the tip of my big toe. I laid my hand on his head; the short hair felt bristly but soft, like a very young hedgehog. "I don't think it was wrong," I said softly. "But if it was...then I'll go to the devil with you, Jamie Fraser.

from THE PAUSE BETWEEN One day the dragonflies appear sudden as the sun. Speed and softness, they lash sky to air in silent seams. One's barred wings and abdomen are pressing to the warm dock's slats. Another lights on the Chekhov book you bought me, not realizing, like everything, it is a short story, too.

As she was putting the finishing touches on The House Without Windows, she wrote of her yearning for a wilder life: “I want as long as possible in that green, fairylike, woodsy, animal-filled, watery, luxuriant, butterfly-painted, moth-dotted, dragonfly-blotched, bird-filled, salamandrous, mossy, ferny, sunshiny, moonshiny, long-dayful, short-nightful land, on that fishy, froggy, tadpoly, shelly, lizard-filled lake—[oh,] no end of the lovely things to say about that place, and I am mad to get there.” Barbara is the girl inside the house, rattling at her cage, demanding to be set free. Go outside, she is saying. Embrace the world in all its frightening, joyful, sun-filled complexity.

What a joy this book is! I love recipe books, but it’s short-lived; I enjoy the pictures for several minutes, read a few pages, and then my eyes glaze over. They are basically books to be used in the kitchen for one recipe at a time. This book, however, is in a different class altogether and designed to be read in its entirety. It’s in its own sui generis category; it has recipes at the end of most of the twenty-one chapters, but it’s a book to be read from cover to cover, yet it could easily be read chapter by chapter, in any order, as they are all self-contained. Every bite-sized chapter is a flowing narrative from a well-stocked brain encompassing Balinese culture, geography and history, while not losing its main focus: food. As you would expect from a scholar with a PhD in history from Columbia University, the subject matter has been meticulously researched, not from books and articles and other people’s work, but from actually being on the ground and in the markets and in the kitchens of Balinese families, where the Balinese themselves learn their culinary skills, hands on, passed down orally, manually and practically from generation to generation. Vivienne Kruger has lived in Bali long enough to get it right. That’s no mean feat, as the subject has not been fully studied before. Yes, there are so-called Balinese recipe books, most, if I’m not mistaken, written by foreigners, and heavily adapted. The dishes have not, until now, been systematically placed in their proper cultural context, which is extremely important for the Balinese, nor has there been any examination of the numerous varieties of each type of recipe, nor have they been given their true Balinese names. This groundbreaking book is a pleasure to read, not just for its fascinating content, which I learnt a lot from, but for the exuberance, enthusiasm and originality of the language. There’s not a dull sentence in the book. You just can’t wait to read the next phrase. There are eye-opening and jaw-dropping passages for the general reader as Kruger describes delicacies from the village of Tengkudak in Tabanan district — grasshoppers, dragonflies, eels and live baby bees — and explains how they are caught and cooked. She does not shy away from controversial subjects, such as eating dog and turtle. Parts of it are not for the faint-hearted, but other parts make you want to go out and join the participants, such as the Nusa Lembongan fishermen, who sail their outriggers at 5.30 a.m. The author quotes Miguel Covarrubias, the great Mexican observer of the 1930s, who wrote “The Island of Bali.” It has inspired all writers since, including myself and my co-author, Ni Wayan Murni, in our book “Secrets of Bali, Fresh Light on the Morning of the World.” There is, however, no bibliography, which I found strange at first. I can only imagine it’s a reflection of how original the subject matter is; there simply are no other sources. Throughout the book Kruger mentions Balinese and Indonesian words and sometimes discusses their derivations. It’s a Herculean task. I was intrigued to read that “satay” comes from the Tamil word for flesh ( sathai ) and that South Indians brought satay to Southeast Asia before Indonesia developed its own tradition. The book is full of interesting tidbits like this. The book contains 47 recipes in all, 11 of which came from Murni’s own restaurant, Murni’s Warung, in Ubud. Mr Dolphin of Warung Dolphin in Lovina also contributed a number of recipes. Kruger adds an introduction to each recipe, with a detailed and usually very personal commentary. I think my favorite, though, is from a village priest (pemangku), I Made Arnila of the Ganesha (Siwa) Temple in Lovina. water. I am sure most will enjoy this book enormously; I certainly did.” Review published in The Jakarta Globe, April 17, 2014. Jonathan Copeland is an author and photographer based in Bali. thejakartaglobe/features/spiritual-journey-culinary-world-bali

I could strip words of their meaning and listen for hours.

Realize that this is everyone’s first time at life.

I hesitate to set down my pen, lest it fall carelessly into the universe.

One night, Theodore Mot realized that the dictionary was incomplete!

I try to capture in words the thought. Why? Because I know how quickly it might leap away. I know how easily it can slip into the brush and disappear.

I can no longer determine if my words are Here or There.

It was a crime to be happy.

I sat on the porch, rocking back and forth, wondering: Could it really be exactly the same? I examined the shapes of the clouds. The sun-tinged wisps. The dimensions of blueness. A familiar scene. Identical, in fact. Yes, I had seen this many years ago, when I was a boy, when my grandfather and I were walking through the fields.

Emotions don't always show up on time.

Why had God created man's face so that he might not see it himself? 'Suppose you could see your own face, would you lose your mind? Would you become incapable of acting?' Most probably man had evolved in such a way that he could not see his own face. Maybe dragonflies and praying mantises could see their own faces.

Nobody said your face had to be on them. I can focus solely on the designs. People would never know it was you. Like . . .” He stopped and showed a cute little dragonfly, perched on the pale white curve of a woman’s hip. A soft growl escaped Zach. “When did she let you take that?” Keelie glanced at Zach and then Zane, saw the glint in his eyes. “Aw, come on, man. You know Abby is like my kid sister. I told her we needed to get some images for the women’s gallery. She was in her swimsuit when I took it. Relax.” “Fuck you,” Zach said, shortly.

Dragonfly larvae breathe underwater through tracheal gills. These gills are located in a rectal respiratory chamber. Water is drawn into the rectum to the gills. This water-filled chamber can also function as a jet by the rapid expulsion of the water enabling the nymph to move at great speed for a short distance and escape danger or capture prey.

Social prejudice is a strong force, but no match for simple competence when skill is in urgent demand and short supply.

Having ensured the health of his bowels by disposing of his parritch in short order, he proceeded to add a French breakfast of buttered rolls and steaming chocolate on top of it.

DRAGONFLY   As my feet take hold of the floor I cling to her lips with the kind of intensity that shakes her entire body with a paralyzing calm. She carefully pushes my shorts down around my thighs while holding on to these lips that have proved perfection to her love. Easing the edge of her skintight shirt up around her frail torso with a steady rise the lower portion of my body eases into hers, she struggling to get her arms around my neck and chest after lifting her shirt over.   Her leg rises up underneath my arm, holding her up as her other leg follows. Like a steady freight crane I carefully move her onto the bed as she holds on to me, falling into her with all of my love. Moving across the surface of her entire body in the way that a dragonfly wets its tail above still water I lie down beside her with one hand moving across her chest. Wishing only to free her I seize her lips with an upward nudge of passion that educes a sort of ethereal beauty as we lie within the soothe of each other’s company. Reaching again for her lips I lean in to kiss her with my pelvis and upper body against hers as our legs intertwine. Aroused beneath my waist comes the part of me that does protrude, causing an effluxion of vitality to commove down my entire vessel in a slow whisper that moves over my entire body towards my legs and toes.

Now, I am not basically a nice person. I _am_ snice, arrogant, and short-tempered. I try to overcome these things, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.

And now, whenever I return, I feel as if our echo is still there, forever caught in the branches of those sycamore trees, reminding me that I am loved, that I should love others, and that years move much too quickly.

The children sat upon the lawn, watching the sky explode.

I know you’re busy. But, if you ever get the chance to travel, I recommend a visit to Karan. It’s a little village on the coast of Western Africa — delicate trees, clear waters, soft beaches, and tiny hills that bend toward the sky. Really, it’s a fascinating place, especially since they do not have a word for Good or Evil.

The Architect, growing tired, sat upon his unfinished work, looking down (or up) at the earth. What else could he do? He had many more ideas, but, by this time, they did not seem to add any true value. He scratched his chin. He watched his tools float about.

The internet collapsed on Thursday. Suddenly, the screen went blank; all I could see was the reflection of my face.